Justice
by Arrancon
Summary: On the outskirts of the war, a Decepticon Micromaster is paid a visit. [Oneshot. Based loosely on the opening scene from Quentin Tarantino's film "Inglorious Basterds".]


The Simfur outskirts were home to Cybertronians who wished to just get away. Built from the ruins of the city-state Altihex, one of the first communities captured by the Decepticon forces and later left to rot, it was a place rarely touched upon when the war took its action to more strategically useful locations. Those living in the remains turned wreckage into quaint homes, living only on what was necessary for survival. Energon was in short supply, and those who had more than most didn't have an edge for long. It was unwise to open your home to anyone after dark, as even friends during the daytime would occasionally show their true colors and pull a blaster on you for nourishment. That's what one gets for taking refuge in the dominion of opportunists, traitors and refugees.

Unfortunately for Powerpunch, honorable discharge from the Decepticon forces did not have any pay benefits. Even after serving the cause for centuries, the Micromaster Combiner could barely afford to gather much more than a weekly dose of energon and was forced to make his residence in this scrapheap of a neighborhood, picking one of the few vacancies with a storage cellar. Such a life would be absent of luxury if not for his hobby of scavenging others trash for treasure.

Hey, dumpster diving sucked, but it was better than the obvious option of self-shutdown. Dignity be damned, Powerpunch wasn't suicidal. He still had one thing to live for.

His favorite acquisition was a symphonic keyboard, placed by the wall underneath a photograph of his old teammates. Though they always talked about each other behind their backs, one thing the Battle Squad had in common was, surprisingly, an appreciation for classical music. Powerpunch had taught himself to play the instrument from sheet files in a scavenged databook a few blocks down – from Sky Garry's rubbage, if he recalled correctly – and after a few months of practice he could perform any song on cue if asked.

Playing at high noon was a daily ritual, when he could hope passerby would be pleased by his expertise and leave a small token of payment on his doorstep. He rarely received energon, but the times that he did were a blessing regardless of how small the portion was. Every last drop counted.

Today's piece was a classic number. Though the streets were unusually empty, Powerpunch wanted to play something on the more difficult spectrum. With nobody around to hear his fumbling over the keys, he could practice for another day when his music could be heard by a larger audience than himself. Nobody would pay him for imperfection.

To his surprise, Powerpunch was doing quite well with his attempt, only missing a keystroke or two each run through the piece. The uplifting melody was beckoning for him to continue, its original orchestral sound emulated quite nicely from the one-person instrument. However, Power Punch was quite parched. Finishing the session, he pushed back from the keyboard and went towards his storage tank for nourishment.

Just as he brought a glass of energon to his mouth, there was a single, heavy knock at the door. Powerpunch found it odd, since there was nobody in the street when he looked out the window moments ago. Not even the sound of footsteps. Had they walked up during his practicing so he deliberately wouldn't hear them?

There was not a moment to ponder, as the visitor knocked once more. Harder this time.

Feeling uneasy, Powerpunch reached back into his storage tank for a small blaster pistol tucked away in the bottom. Hopefully he wouldn't have to use it.

"Just a minute," Powerpunch said loudly for his visitor to hear, downing the energon quickly and tucking his blaster behind his back midstride to the door.

Opening that door was a mistake.

It was a purple and white Cybertronian, at least three times his height and with tank treads for shoulders. A double barreled fusion cannon was forged to his right arm, and unblinking red eyes stared down at him from behind a faceplate in the shape of the very symbol still embossed on Powerpunch's arm. The large Decepticon knelt down on one knee, attempting to get as close to face level with Powerpunch as possible.

"…How's it going?" The Micromaster mustered out. He managed to hide his fear well (keeping his shaking on the inside, somehow), though he knew all too well who this visitor was and the possible connotations behind this visit.

"Very well, thank you," the visitor replied formally in his deep, sophisticated tone, "I heard you're music from outside, and had to come and commend you for your skills. The Empyrean Suite is a difficult piece to perform. I appreciate any who attempt to master my favorite melody."

"Appreciate it. Not much else to do around here than play."

"I would imagine," the visitor looked to his left, hen right, "This shell of a community does not have any substance to it. It would probably be better off wiped off the face of Cybertron, along with all the criminals and traitors that call it home."

"Heh. Maybe… There's some good bots around here, though. Not many, but some. I like to think I'm one of them."

"As do I," the visitor pointed at his Decepticon symbol, "Those who proudly wear that badge give me more incentive to believe so. Your name?"

He doesn't know you, Powerpunch thought. _Lie._ Don't give him an edge. "Name's Cortex."

"A pleasure. Do you know who I am?"

"I don't think we've met before, stranger."

"Which is a good thing, I assure you. I rarely make visits such as this without malicious intention. My name is Tarn."

Scrap. Powerpunch knew this guy was one of _them_ , but the leader of the Decepticon Justice Division? At his front door, no less?! "Now, that name… That rings a bell."

"It should. The leader of the DJD's name should make any Cybertronian feel humbled, ally or otherwise. Feel no shame in not connecting the name to the face. Not many who see it are given another chance to see it again."

"…Right. Well, I don't want to keep you busy with chit chat. You've probably got a lot of things on your hand to get to." Powerpunch subtly reached for the door out of Tarn's line of sight, hoping to end this uneasy conversation early. The visitor, however, was not so eager to end it. He put his hand in the doorway, grabbing the wall to stop any notion of ceasing their chat.

"Surprisingly, no. Today is an off day. My team is off at our ship. I decided to give them some free time for once. Could you perhaps spare me a cup of energon? I'm incredibly parched."

"…Of course. It's quite small in here for you, though."

"Oh, I believe I can fit."

It wasn't like Powerpunch had a choice in the situation. Stepping aside to let the DJD leader in, he begrudgingly went to get him a glass. Having poured it, he turned to see Tarn making himself comfortable in his favorite chair.

"I hope you do not mind if I make myself comfortable," Tarn said, taking the energon from Powerpunch, shaking the glass in his hand to stir up the liquid.

"Not at all," the Micromaster complied, sitting on the smaller stool for his keyboard. Even seated, Tarn dwarfed him. Everything in his home was made miniscule in the presence of him.

"I expected your home to be barren of luxury. You have quite a decent collection of databooks to your name. A lover of literature?"

"Passes the time."

"I suspect you have read all of them multiple times?"

"Know a few by memory."

"Impressive, but also tragic. It must be lonely to not have anyone to converse with them about."

"Yeah. I guess it is."

Tarn put the glass to one of the small grooves in his mask, letting it trickle into his concealed mouth. "Do you have a favorite?"

"None in particular."

"I see. Mine is _Towards Peace_. Though you could probably guess so, seeing my undying loyalty to the Decepticon doctrine. Lord Megatron is releasing another rendition soon, if rumor is to be believed. Have you ever read it?"

"Unfortunately not. If no one has thrown out a copy around here, then I don't have it."

"I see. A good thing, though," Tarn chuckled, "If I would have discovered anyone throwing out his _magnum opus_ , then I would have to kill them."

"Heh. You said it."

"Not to change the topic so abruptly, but could you explain to me your situation?"

"…My situation?"

"Yes. I know for certainty the name Cortex is not on _The List._ If it was, you would be dead right now for desertion or treason."

"Oh, that… Honorable discharge. Fried transformation cog. Rusty joints. Pretty much everything that hinders battlefield performance."

"Ah. A shame."

"Yeah. Time will do a number on a bot's joints."

"Hm? Oh no, not that. While that is unfortunate, it is more unfortunate that I seemed to have made a grave error."

"What do you mean by that?"

Tarn set the empty energon glass down, tapping his finger to his mask in visual agitation. "A mistake on _The List_. The reports said that there was another Decepticon living in this area, with the same physical diagnosis you just gave to me… His name was Powerpunch."

The Micromaster froze for the briefest of moments, glancing quickly down at the floor and what was hiding below it. He quickly reformed a relaxed composure and took Tarn's glass back to where he had grabbed it. "Well, isn't that-

"He was part of the Battle Squad, I believe," Tarn continued, speaking over Powerpunch as if he wasn't even worth hearing, "One of the few still left alive of it. If I remember correctly, all but two were killed in combat on Moonbase IV. Crushed by a sudden shower of debris from above. Tragic that the debris came from one of our own warships. Irony such as that, seeing your friends literally die under the weight of their own honorable cause, would be more than enough to create a deserter from at least _one_ of the survivors."

Powerpunch looked to the floor again, feeling the pair of eyes from beneath it staring up in utter dread of what could possibly come next. Only when he saw Tarn looking at the picture of his team above the keyboard did he realize that he had brought doom upon his hiding friend and possibly himself.

"But that deserter couldn't have been Powerpunch, no. He was an honorable discharge, after all. Staying with the Decepticon cause to the end. Such a brave soldier… unlike _Direct-Hit."_

"…Direct-Hit?"

"His combiner partner. A complete failure of a Decepticon: progress reports show he was inept at nearly every task he was put up to. The complete opposite of _Powerpunch."_ Tarn looked the smaller bot in the eyes, revealing that the rouse of Cortex was gone. "Surely a loyal soldier like Powerpunch would not put his own personal friendships over the glory of the Decepticon cause, would he not? Surely he would not hide a deserter such as Direct-Hit from the Decepticon Justice Division's leader himself?"

A large hand reached out and grabbed Powerpunch by his cranium, the tips from his fingers crushing him. Tarn leaned in and began whispering, a jolt of pain and exhaustion surging through the Micromaster's circuits. At this low of a voice, only Powerpunch would be able to hear his words.

" _And surely the loyal Powerpunch would turn in a coward like that over in exchange for his life… would he not?"_

Clutching at his neck, Powerpunch made his decision and shook his head.

" _I see… Once I drop you, you will point out to me where exactly he is hiding below us. If you attempt to scream in any fashion, you will die… Is that clear?"_

Another nod, and Tarn dropped Powerpunch. With a cock of his twin fusion cannon, he aimed the barrels at the Micromaster's head. The quivering bot slowly gestured to the spot on the floor right below Tarn's feet. The hunter took two steps backward.

"Well, _Cortex,"_ Tarn announced boldly, putting a hand on his own chest, "It was a pleasure, I assure you. The energon was delicious, and your home quaint. But now, I must bid you…

 _ **CH-CHCK.**_

"A good day."

Two blast shots, and two screams.

Then all fell silent in the outskirts of Simfur as justice was served.


End file.
